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BRIDGES  AND  BYWAYS 

(OF  CINCINNATI) 


PRINTS  FROM  THE  ETCHINGS  OF 

E.  T.  HURLEY 

TEXT  BY 

JAMES  ALBERT  GREEN 


GIFT  OF 
A.   F.   Morrison 


I 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

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BRIDGES  AND  BYWAYS 


PRINTS 

FROM  THE  ETCHINGS  OF 

E.  T.  HURLEY 


TEXT  BY 
JAMES  ALBERT  GREEN 


CINCINNATI 

THE  ST.  JAMES  PRESS 

No.  10  St.  James  Place 

1919 


HfffS 


Copyright,  1919,  by  E.  T.  Hurley 

GIFT  OP 


LM 


DICKENS,  in  his  Preface  to  Bleak 
House,  says  that  he  deals  with  the  ro- 
mantic side  of  familiar  things.  And  this 
is  what  Mr.  Hurley  has  done.  He  has  shown 
us  the  beautiful  in  places,  which  from  long 
acquaintance,  we  may  have  regarded  as 
dull  and  commonplace.  It  is  the  province  of 
the  poet  and  the  artist  to  interpret  for  us; 
to  idealize  the  everyday  things;  to  show  us 
their  soul  and  their  inner  meaning.  We 
Cincinnatians  live  in  a  city  that  is  full 
of  unexpected  beauty  and  we  live  in  a 
region   of   rolling  hills   and    splendid   vistas, 

made  to  delight  the  soul  of  the  artist. 

Mr.  Hurley  has  "the  vision  and  the  faculty 
divine"  to  bring  to  us  the  familiar  places  and 
scenes  glorified  and  exalted  into  something 
better  than  we  know.  A  distinctly  local  work 
of  this  kind  belongs  peculiarly  to  us — to  the 
people  of  this  community — and  I  feel  that  in 
this  little  book  of  pictures  the  artist  has 
literally  done  what  the  Psalmist    suggested: 

Walk  about  Zion,  and  go  round  about  her; 

Number  the  towers  thereof; 

Mark  ye  well  her  bulwarks; 

Consider  her  palaces 

That  ye  may  tell  it  to  the  generation 
following. 

—JAMES  A.  GREEN. 


[yj95638 


Cover — The  City  from  Mt.  Adams. 
Frontispiece — 

E.  T.  Hurley  and  I.  B.  Hurley,  printing  etchings. 
I     The  Arch  Bridge,  Eden  Park. 
Looking  down  Walnut,  from  Sixth. 
Kemper  Lane  and  Locust  Street,  (Carnegie 

Library,    Congregational    Church    and 

Little  Playhouse). 
Coppin's  Lake,  Latonia,  Ky. 
The  Sixth  Street  Market,  in  the  rain. 
St.  Peter's  Church,  (head  of  Main  Street) 

from  Hughes  Street. 
St.  Clement's,  St.  Bernard. 
The  Cantilever  Bridge,  from  the  Newport 

side.     (Night). 
Wharfboats,  Newport,  Ky. 
The  New  Hamilton  County  Court  House. 
The  Little  Bridge,  Over  the  Pond,  Eden 

Park. 
On  the  Hilltops,  Elgin  and  Hatch  Streets. 
The  Mohawk  Bridge. 
Entrance  to  the  Scottish  Rite  Cathedral, 

Broadway  above  Fourth. 
The  Ringgold  Street  Viaduct,  Mt.  Auburn. 
The    Lombardy    Poplars    of    Alma    Lane, 

Mt.  Auburn. 
The  Old  Stone  Bridge  at  Sandfordtown, 

(Ky.) 
Entrance  to  St.  Xavier's,  Sycamore  above 

Sixth. 
Little  Miami  Valley  from  Ault  Park. 
The  Lincoln  Statue  in  Lytle  Park. 


II 
III 


IV 

V 

VI 

VII 
VIII 

IX 

X 

XI 

XII 
XIII 
XIV 

XV 
XVI 

XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 
XX 


XXI 

XXII 
XXIII 
XXIV 

XXV 

XXVI 

XXVII 

XXVIII 

XXIX 

XXX 
XXXI 


XXXII 
XXXIII 
XXXIV 

XXXV 
XXXVI 

XXXVII 

XXXVIII 

XXXIX 


Along  Duck  Creek   (from  an  etching  by 

LB.  Hurley).  .:'•' 

The  Side  of  the  Hill,  Mt.  Adams.  \'\\[ 

The  Park  Avenue  Bridge.  J.":.    '\\' 

Cannon  Lane.  ,ll'l    '*•• 

Along  the  Little  Miami,  near  Plaitf^ilte.  •     , 

•• ••     ,•• 

Government  and  Fountain  Squares  ,  I 

•••••    •••< 

Cincinnati  and  the  Ohio,  from  Devou.Park. , , 

The  Cliffs,  East  Pavillion  Street.  •...,    'yj 

The  Canal  at  Vine  Street.  •;••.    *,,, 

Lower  Market  in  Winter.  ''    • 

The  Ida  Street  Bridge,  Pilgrim  Chajjel*and 

Eden  Park,  (from  the  Rookwood  Tower) 

Winter. 
The  Side  of  the  Hill,  East  End. 
Odd  Ohio  River  Craft. 
The  Boathouse,  Brighton. 
Fourth  Street,  West  of  Main. 
The  Clifton  Basin.     (From  an  etching  by 

I.  B.  Hurley). 
The  L.  &  N.  Bridge,  from  the  Newport  side. 
Reflections,  Olive  Branch. 
Mt.  Adams,  from  Bellevue. 


I^— THE  ARCH  BRIDGE,  EDEN  PARK. 

'■1 

;  Man    has    never    done    anything    more 

wonderful  than  to  send  bridges  with  airy- 
arches  through  space.  The  aeroplane  that 
files  is.  not  more  marvelous.  And  this  arch  in 
Eden  Park  is  not  only  beautiful,  but  it  is  one 
of  the  earliest  examples  in  the  world  of  a 
concrete  bridge.  When  it  was  built  the 
Sceptics  predicted  it  would  crumble,  that  it 
would  not  support  its  own  weight — but  it 
still  stands,  a  monument  to  the  art  of  plastic 
stone. 


II.— LOOKING  DOWN  WALNUT  FROM  SIXTH. 

Cincinnati's  canyon  street — Cardinal  Mer- 
cier  when  he  saw  the  New  York  skyscrapers 
thought  they  were  ecclesiastical  edifices — but 
in  America  we  build  for  business  purposes 
structures  that  overtop  the  loftiest  of  Europe's 
Cathedrals. 

This  does  not  mean  that  we  set  business 
above  religion — it  means  that  instead  of  having 
our  cities  sprawl  all  over  the  landscape,  as  it 
were,  we  have  by  means  of  the  skyscraper 
attained  an  amazing  concentration  of  the  bus- 
iness population. 


III.— KEMPER  LANE  AND  LOCUST  STREET. 

There  is  always  something  striking  in  a 
tower  or  a  spire.  Practically  all  we  build  is 
purely  utilitarian,  but  towers  are  for  ornament. 
There  is  something  lavish  and  splendid  about 
them.  Houses  may  be  all  of  one  pattern, 
but  each  and  every  tower  has  a  character 
of  its  own.  Think  of  the  dreary  monotony 
of  a  city  without  church  steeples. 


IV.— COPPIN'S  LAKE,  LATONIA,  KY. 

These  rare  old  forest  trees!  When  I  was 
a  boy  there  were  men  still  living  who  remem- 
bered when  all  the  hills  that  encircled  our 
city  were  covered  with  the  primeval  forest. 
Ah,  if  the  pioneers  had  possessed  vision — if 
they  had  consecrated  the  hillsides  to  be  parks, 
think  of  what  Cincinnati  would  have  been. 
The  downtown  city  belted  with  a  forest  area 
through  whose  cool  glades  we  would  pass  to 
reach  the  suburbs  on  the  hills.  But  here 
and  there  yet  stand  a  few  of  the  old  "first 
growth"  trees  which  should  be  cherished  as 
something  which  once  gone  can  never  be 
restored.  Pleasant  it  is,  too,  to  think  that 
we  are  undoing  the  work  of  our  heedless  fore- 
fathers and  in  many  a  new  park  are  restoring 
the  forests. 


v.— THE  SIXTH  STREET  MARKET. 

What  color  and  what  life  there  is  in  a 
market!  What  bargaining!  Fruits  and  flow- 
ers, meat  and  vegetables,  cheese  and  cakes, 
bread  and  pickles — what  you  will  in  endless 
profusion.  Our  markets  are  a  survival  of 
a  past  era.  Madame  Trollope  said  that 
in  her  day  all  the  best  people  carried  their 
own  baskets  to  the  markets.  Perhaps  were 
we  to  do  that  now  the  cost  of  living  might 
not  be  so  high. 

Years  ago  I  remember  Murat  Halstead  told 
me  that  he  joyed  to  see  a  market  fruit  stand — 
the  yellow  oranges,  the  red  apples,  the  purple 
plums — such  a  riot  of  color  that  it  pleased  his 
eyes  beyond  measure — made  brilliant  the  com- 
monplace of  its  surroundings. 


VI.— ST.  PETER'S  CHURCH,  FROM  HUGHES  ST. 

Once,  on  Lake  Como,  I  made  the  round  in 
a  little  steamer  of  all  the  straggling  villages 
on  the  shore,  and  marveled  much  at  the 
variety  of  the  towers.  Every  church  had  a 
different  kind  of  a  tower.  Some  Gothic;  some 
like  one  belfry  built  on  top  of  another  belfry, 
and  some  that  defied  all  rules  of  architecture 
but  were  lovely  none  the  less.  And  I  thought 
that  had  I  time  I  should  like,  were  I  an  artist, 
to  make  a  lasting  memorial  of  these  towers. 
But  it  is  the  same  in  Cincinnati.  We  have 
remarkable  church  towers;  some  which  are 
miracles  of  slender  beauty,  some  which  are 
impressive,  and  some  which,  rising  in  the  mean 
and  poor  quarters  of  the  town,  strike  us  with 
a  sudden  sense  that  here  is  the  redeeming 
feature  of  the  quarter.  And  all  of  these  towers 
are  an  aspiration  toward  the  skies.  They  all 
point  upward  and  onward.  That  is  their  real 
significance. 


VII.— ST.   CLEMENT'S,   ST.   BERNARD. 

Here  is  where  the  good  Franciscan  Brothers 
officiate.  These  gentle  followers  of  St.  Francis, 
of  Assisi.  They  have  in  their  Lord  and 
Master  their  great  example.  They  have  in 
their  patron  saint  their  great  inspiration.  Yet 
one  is  struck  sometimes  with  a  sense  of  the 
strangeness  of  it  all.  Here,  in  this  busy  little 
industrial  suburb  of  St.  Bernard,  to  see  the 
brown-robed  brothers,  with  ropes  for  girdles, 
and  their  sandals,  going  in  and  out  of  their 
church  and  meditating  in  their  garden,  while 
all  about  them  hum  the  vast  activities  of  the 
modern  world. 


VIII.— THE  CANTILEVER  BRIDGE,  FROM  THE 
NEWPORT  SIDE— (NIGHT). 

I  often  think  how  the  Ohio,  in  its  wild 
and  wayward  February  and  March  floods, 
sweeping  all  before  it  in  its  wild  rush  of 
mighty  waters,  snarls  and  tears  at  the  bridges 
that  span  it.  They  defy  its  fiercest  onslaughts 
and  stand  serene  and  untroubled  as  monu- 
ments of  man's  triumph  over  nature. 


IX.— WHARFBOATS,  NEWPORT,  KY. 

The  River  has  its  own  people,  who  live 
on  it  and  with  it.  They  are  a  strange  folk, 
these  river  people,  as  picturesque  and  as 
foreign  to  the  usual  things  of  everyday  life 
as  can  be  imagined,  rough,  rude  primitive 
and  forever  facing  storm  and  danger.  They 
are  like  the  sea-faring  people  of  a  salt  water 
port,  distinct  and  separate  from  the  rest  of 
the  community.  It  was  the  Ohio  River  that 
made  Cincinnati.  It  was  the  founder  of  the 
family  fortune  as  it  were  and  of  late  years 
we  have  been  neglectful  of  our  river,  treating 
it  something  like  a  thing  outworn. 

If  you  would  see  the  river  aright  go  at  the 
close  of  day  when  the  dusk  shadows  obscure 
the  sharp  lines  of  the  landscape,  just  at  the 
hour  between  day  and  night  when  the  lights 
begin  to  blaze  in  the  city's  windows — go  then 
and  stand  on  one  of  the  bridges. 


X.— THE  NEW  HAMILTON  CO.,  COURT  HOUSE. 

This  magnificent  new  court  house,  a  real 
temple  of  justice,  noble  and  dignified,  as 
befits  the  majesty  of  the  law,  is  a  gift  which 
this  generation  of  Cincinnatians  is  making 
to  the  generations  which  shall  follow  it.  The 
man  who  builds  leaves  a  heritage  to  posterity. 
During  his  own  life  time  he  enjoys  the  work 
of  his  hands,  but  what  he  really  does  when 
he  builds  is  to  make  a  gift  to  the  men  who 
come  after  him.  Great  public  buildings  have 
in  themselves  the  elements  of  poetry.  They 
appeal  to  our  sense  of  grandeur  and  of  beauty. 
Next  to  the  works  of  God,  like  the  skylines 
of  mountains  or  the  shores  of  the  sea,  the 
most  impressive  things  in  the  world  are  the 
clustered  towers  and  spires,  and  roofs  of  a 
great  city.  The  long  lines  of  the  pillars, 
the  great  colonnades  and  mighty  walls  seem 
built  to  outlast  the  centuries. 

This  etching  the  artist  made  in  compli- 
ment to  the  writer  of  the  text  and  he  makes 
his  grateful  acknowledgment. 


XL— THE  LITTLE  BRIDGE,  OVER  THE  POND 
EDEN  PARK. 

Where  in  the  crowded  city  streets  may 
lovers  hand  in  hand,  whisper  their  old  story 
that  is  ever  new?  But  here  on  the  bridge  in 
the  park,  with  water  lilies  in  the  lagoon  be- 
neath them  and  the  smell  of  the  grass  and 
flowers — here  is  the  place  where  love  and 
youth  belong. 


XII.— ON  THE  HILLTOPS. 

These  pathetic  hillsides  of  ours,  washed  out 
by  the  spring  rains,  baked  by  the  summer 
suns,  with  the  houses  clinging  to  them  and  the 
streets  ascending  at  impossible  angles.  But 
how  I  love  them — and  whenever  I  see  a  city 
built  on  a  plain  I  thank  God  for  our  hills. 
And  when  I  am  far  from  home  in  a  level  land, 
my  heart  and  my  soul  cry  out  for  the  valleys 
and  the  hills  of  home. 

And  on  our  clear  days  when  the  air  has 
been  washed  and  purified  by  the  rain,  the 
houses  on  the  hillsides,  as  you  see  them  from 
the  windows  of  our  down  town  skyscrapers, 
stand  out  in  all  their  vivid  and  many  colors 
like  jewels  set  in  them  for  their  adorning. 


XIII.— THE  MOHAWK  BRIDGE. 

This  lift  bridge  over  the  canal  is  not  as 
picturesque  as  the  great  lift  bridges  in  Chicago, 
or  the  one  at  the  Soo.  But  then  it  is  a  lift 
bridge  that  does  not  lift,  for  it  is  frozen  to  the 
street  level.  But  as  the  canal  has  ceased  to 
function  as  a  canal,  it  makes  no  possible  dif- 
ference whether  it  lifts  or  not. 


XIV.— ENTRANCE  TO  THE  SCOTTISH  RITE 
CATHEDRAL. 

Procul,  procul,  0  este  profani!  Avaunt, 
ye  Philistines!  As  it  might  be  rendered  in 
modern  English.  This  is  the  inscription  over 
this  door  that  opens  only  for  the  elect  to  the 
Temple  of  Mystery.  But  as  so  many  of  our 
best  people  belong  here  it  is  certain  that  the 
mysteries  are  nothing  that  would  cause  any 
harm.  In  fact  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  a 
part  of  the  mysteries  consist  in  the  mysterious 
art  of  good  cooking  of  which  the  Shriners  boast. 


XV.— THE  RINGGOLD  STREET  VIADUCT, 
MT.  AUBURN. 

Like  a  strange  caterpillar  with  many  legs 
the  viaduct  crosses  the  hillsides  and  below  is  a 
sea  of  roofs.  Here,  lies  spread  out  the  great 
city,  street  on  street,  and  far  away  beyond 
the  splendid  tower  of  the  Union  Central  are 
the  Kentucky  hills,  while  to  the  west  there 
is  a  glimpse  of  a  mighty  bend  of  the  Ohio 
— ^go  where  you  will  on  the  outer  circle  of  the 
hills  there  are  these  wonderful  views. 

How  I  pity  the  man  who  does  not  explore 
his  own  city,  the  man  who  is  content  to  go 
from  home  and  back  day  after  day.  Cities 
are  worlds  in  themselves.  They  are  never 
monotonous  because  they  are  instinct  with  life. 
There  is  a  variety  about  Cincinnati  that  is 
infinite.  My  love  for  my  own  city  grows  as 
I  know  it  better — I  never  tire  of  it — I  love 
it  with  a  great  and  absorbing  passion— I  love 
to  serve  her  and  I  delight  to  tell  others  of  her 
glories— delight  to  think  of  her  great  men — 
but  I  love  Cincinnati,  for  it  is  Cincinnati  and 
it  is  my  home. 


'^^ 


-■< 


XVI.— THE  LOMBARDY  POPLARS  OF  ALMA 
LANE,  MT.  AUBURN. 

Sometimes,  when  from  the  hills  there  is 
a  sudden  vision  of  the  far  off  city,  beautiful 
and  mystical  in  the  distance,  I  can  hear  the 
Pilgrims  in  the  Golden  Legend,  chanting  of  the 
city  of  their  dreams. 

Urbs  coelestis,  urbs  beata 
Supra  petram  collocata 
Urbs  in  portu  satis  tuta 
De  longinquo  te  saluto. 
Te  saluto,  te  suspiro 
Te  affecto,  te  requiro. 


XVII.— THE  OLD  STONE  BRIDGE  AT 
SANDFORDTOWN. 

The  automobile  has  brought  the  beauty 
of  the  country  to  our  doors.  War,  said  Pitt, 
is  a  great  teacher  of  geography.  And  the 
automobile  likewise  is  a  great  teacher  of  local 
geography.  We  never  knew  before  it  came 
of  the  little  streams,  the  odd  bridges  and  the 
hills  and  vales  that  are  so  near  us. 


XVIIL— ENTRANCE  TO  ST.  XAVIER'S. 

Here  they  pass  through  this  door  that  is 
always  open — the  devout  worshipper,  the 
happy  bride  and  bridegroom,  the  mourners 
with  their  dead,  the  proud  parents  with  their 
babe  to  be  baptized,  the  gay  procession  of 
school  children  to  their  morning  prayers. 

I  think  when  I  see  a  church  that  it  sets 
its  seal  of  consecration  upon  the  great  events 
of  human  life — birth,  marriage,  death. 


XIX.— LITTLE  MIAMI  VALLEY,  FROM 
AULT  PARK. 

I  never  weary  of  the  Valley  of  the  Little 
Miami.  No  wonder  that  when  the  pioneers 
came  down  the  Ohio  seeking  what  was  best  in 
the  new  far  West  they  stopped  here.  It  is 
richer  than  the  valley  of  the  Nile,  more  beauti- 
ful than  I  have  words  to  tell.  One  of  our 
most  traveled  Cincinnatians  told  me  that  he 
had  been  the  wide  world  over  but  nowhere 
had  he  found  a  valley,  that  in  itself  united  all 
the  elements  that  go  to  make  a  landscape 
lovely,  as  does  this  which  lies  at  our  very  door. 


XX.— THE  LINCOLN  STATUE,  IN  LYTLE  PARK. 

"His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 
so  mixed  in  him,  that  nature  might  stand  up 
and  say  to  all  the  world,  THIS  WAS  A  MAN' ". 
An  inspiration  to  have  the  statue  of  Abraham 
Lincoln  on  our  busy  street,  and  I  breathe  a 
silent  prayer  of  gratitude  to  the  great  hearted 
man  and  woman  who  presented  this  statue 
to  our  city,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Taft.  Would  there 
were  more  like  them. 


XXL— ALONG    DUCK   CREEK. 

Ah  me,  this  sylvan  stream  of  my  boyhood 
where  once  the  fish  delighted  to  lie  in  its 
shady  pools.  And  I  remember  Duck  Creek 
Road  which  crossed  and  recrossed  it,  but  there 
were  no  bridges  then.  The  traveler  must 
ford  the  stream.  How  delicately  the  horses 
used  to  put  their  hoofs  in  the  water  and  what 
an  adventure  it  was  to  go  from  bank  to  bank 
in  this  way.  There  are  bridges  now,  ugly 
angular  bridges  that  even  Mr.  Hurley  does 
not  try  to  make  beautiful  with  his  magic  art, 
but  to  me  Duck  Creek  will  always  remain 
as  it  was  so  many  years  ago,  clear,  beautiful 
and  shaded  by  its  basket  willows  and  giant 
sycamores. 


XXII.— THE  SIDE  OF  THE  HILL,  MT.  ADAMS. 

This  is  our  Mount  St.  Michael.  They 
builded  better  than  they  knew  when  they 
placed  this  Church  of  the  Immaculate  Con- 
ception on  the  top  of  the  lofty  hill  where  it 
is  forever  a  part  of  the  sky  line.  Sometimes 
it  stands  out  boldly,  sharp  and  clear  when  the 
atmosphere  is  sparkling,  sometimes  it  is  misty 
and  indistinct  on  smoky  days — then  it  looms 
large  and  mysterious.  And  because  it  is  on 
a  hill  top  and  it  means  effort  to  reach  it,  the 
devout  on  Good  Friday  climb  the  steep — 
hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  dear  good  people — 
to  say  their  prayers  upon  this  day  of  days 
before  the  altar  in  this  church,  which  then 
becomes  a  shrine. 


XXIIL— THE  PARK  AVE.,  BRIDGE. 

"With  a  single  arch,  from  ridge  to  ridge 
It  leaps  across  the  terrible  chasm. 

Abbot  Giraldus  of  Einsiedel 

For  Pilgrims  on  their  way  to  Rome, 

Built  this  at  last  with  a  single  arch 

Under  which,  on  it's  endless  march. 

Runs  the  river,  white  with  foam 

Like  a  thread  through  the  eye  of  a  needle.'' 

This  modern  bridge  of  ours,  far  larger 
and  more  wonderful  than  the  Devil's  Bridge 
of  which  Longfellow  sings,  carries  across  the 
deep  valley  an  endless  stream  of  traffic,  traffic 
that  would  have  amazed  the  Pilgrims  on  their 
way  to  Rome;  and  instead  of  a  river  beneath, 
is  a  great  highway  leading  from  the  river 
level  to  the  top  of  the  hills. 


y 


XXIV.— CANNON  LANE. 

These  odd  back  yards  in  the  by-ways, 
only  the  artist  can  see  that  they  offer  a  neces- 
sary contrast  in  the  city's  Ufe. 

Have  you  ever  thought  that  back  yards 
are  the  true  index  of  the  family?  Here  is  a 
back  yard  neat  as  a  pin  with  flowers  growing 
in  it — perhaps  a  vegetable  garden,  and  a  rustic 
seat.  Ah,  the  people  who  live  there  do  their 
duty  by  God  and  man — that  is  certain.  And 
here  is  a  back  yard  littered  with  rubbish — 
let  us  pass  on,  we  would  not  care  to  meet  the 
people  there. 


XXV.— ALONG  THE  LITTLE  MIAMI,  NEAR 
PLAINVILLE. 

The  Indians  loved  it  as  we  love  it,  this 
Little  Miami  River.  They  built  their  towns 
upon  its  banks  and  planted  their  corn  in  its 
bottoms  as  we  plant  our  corn.  It  is  the  joy 
of  the  summer  guest,  this  gentle  river. 

To  me  it  is  endeared  in  memory— I  swam 
it  as  a  boy  and  my  boys  swam  it  in  their 
turn — I  have  often  floated  down  in  it  in  a  canoe 
from  Morrow  to  the  Ohio  and  shot  its  many 
rapids,  or  paddled  down  its  long  placid  stretches 
with  infinite  delight.  And  once  below  the 
dam  at  King^s  Mills  in  the  rapids  a  two  pound 
bass  jumped  into  my  canoe. 


XXVL— GOVERNMENT  AND  FOUNTAIN 
SQUARE. 

Fountain  Square  is  not  exactly  an  oasis 
in  the  midst  of  the  crowded  city,  but  it  is  an 
interlude.  Do  we  appreciate  our  glorious 
fountain  according  to  its  worth? 

Let  spouting  fountains  cool  the  air 
Singing  in  the  sun-baked  square, 
Let  statue,  picture,  park  and  hall 
Ballad,  flag  and  festival; 
The  past  restore,  the  day  adorn 
And  make  each  morrow  a  new  morn. 


XXVII.— CINCINNATI  AND  THE  OHIO.     FROM 
DEVOU  PARK. 

How  the  words  of  the  Psalmist  seem  to 
apply  to  Cincinnati,  "As  the  mountains  are 
around  about  Jerusalem",  so  are  the  hills 
roundabout  our  city. 

Pray  for  the  peace  of  Jerusalem, 
They  shall  prosper  that  love  thee; 
Peace  be  within  thy  walls, 
And  prosperity  within  thy  palaces. 


XXVIII.— THE  CLIFFS,  EAST  PAVILLION 
STREET. 

Here  are  the  modern  cliff  dwellers,  with 
houses  sometimes  five  stories  in  the  rear  and 
one  story  in  the  front.  Our  hills  occasionally 
give  us  some  surprising  architecture.  But  what 
an  uninteresting  thing  a  crowd  would  be  if 
all  were  dressed  in  Quaker  grey!  And  how 
stupid  and  duH  would  be  a  city  if  the  houses 
did  not  surprise  us  once  in  a  while.  Yet  I 
sometimes  wonder  over  the  practical  house- 
keeping details  of  one  of  these  hillside  houses 
where  the  dining  room  and  kitchen  are  on 
the  top  floor  and  the  bedrooms  go  down  and 
down  for  four  flights  of  stairs. 


XXIX.— THE  CANAL  AT  VINE  STREET. 

What  a  memorial  of  the  past — this  old 
canal.  It  flourished  in  the  days  of  our  grand- 
fathers, or  perhaps  in  the  days  of  our  great- 
grandfathers, when  its  waters  were  clear  and 
when  it  was  a  highway  of  travel  and  of  com- 
merce. Those  easy  going  days  when  a  canal 
boat  was  fast  enough,  and  when  the  canal 
flowed  between  vineyards  and  gardens — those 
far  off  times  when  it  was  a  great  holiday  just 
to  go  in  a  gayly  decorated  canal  boat  out 
possibly  to  a  place  as  remote  as  Cumminsville. 
It  is  not  difficult,  as  you  linger  on  the  banks  of 
the  canal  where  still  so  many  of  the  earliest 
buildings  of  the  city  stand,  to  reconstruct 
that  dear,  delightful,  leisurely  past.  Soon 
the  canal  will  be  replaced  by  a  boulevard  and 
pictures  like  these  will  be  the  only  tangible 
memorial  of  vanished  times  and  ways. 


XXX.— LOWER  MARKET,  IN  WINTER. 

Poor  patient  Dobbin — is  he  destined  to 
become  extinct?  He  certainly  is  fast  dis- 
appearing from  the  city  streets.  Where  there 
was  one  automobile  five  years  ago  there  are 
twenty  to-day;  and  where  to-day  there  is 
one  horse  there  were  forty  five  years  ago. 
And  the  artist  may  be  doing  posterity  a  ser- 
vice in  showing  just  how  a  horse  and  wagon 
looked. 


XXXI.— THE   IDA  STREET   BRIDGE,   PILGRIM 

CHAPEL  AND  EDEN  PARK,  FROM  THE 

ROOKWOOD  TOWER.    WINTER. 

The  snow  makes  the  world  over.  It 
changes  form  and  line  so  that  what  once  we 
knew  has  become  something  else. 

"The  frolic  architecture  of  the  Snow". 
And  in  the  city  what  a  change,  to  wake  some 
winter  morning  and  find  the  roadways  and 
the  roofs  a  radiant  white! 

Sometimes  I  think  the  snow  is  the  Re- 
cording Angel,  who  in  a  mood  of  gracious 
forgiveness  and  forgetting,  covers  all  the  ugly 
places  of  the  earth  with  a  snowy  mantle  of 
oblivion. 


XXXIL— THE  SIDE  OF  THE  HILLS,  EAST  END. 

There  is  a  regularity  about  city  streets 
that  may  grow  monotonous,  but  one  can  never 
complain  of  our  hill  sides  in  that  way — these 
hills  that  surround  our  city,  now  gently  rising 
and  then  abruptly  falling,  with  a  thousand 
different  curves,  with  the  streets  running  at 
many  angles,  the  houses  perched  some  times 
in  places  that  seem  impossible;  these  primitive, 
original  houses  with  no  regard  for  harmony 
or  architecture,  some  with  their  yards  running 
at  an  angle  of  45  degrees  up  the  hill,  some  with 
their  gardens  running  at  an  angle  45  degrees 
down  the  hill.  If  you  would  study  the  most 
original  things  in  our  city,  study  not  the  city 
itself  or  the  hill  tops,  but  study  the  hill  sides. 
Sometimes  I  think  of  the  houses  as  of  an 
invading  army  which  has  gloriously  marched 
over  the  plain  and  filled  it,  and  which  has 
assaulted  the  hills  but  has  not  conquered  them. 


XXXIII.— ODD  OHIO  RIVER  CRAFT. 

It  is  only  on  our  inland  rivers  that  the 
shanty  boat  flourishes — and  in  China.  The 
shanty  boat  has  an  evil  reputation.  But 
I  knew  a  man  who  had  made  a  fortune  in 
Huntington.  He  retired  from  business  and 
built  a  palatial  shanty  boat  and  spent  four 
years  in  cruising,  so  to  speak,  from  Huntington 
to  the  Gulf.  He  had  lived  all  his  life  on  the 
river,  loved  it,  and  when  at  last  the  opportunity 
came  he  carried  out  the  ambition  he  had  long 
cherished — to  see  the  river  from  end  to  end 
and  to  loaf  along  its  shores  and  visit  its  towns 
to  his  heart's  content.  This  man  was  a 
gentleman,  a  man  of  genuine  culture,  so  you 
see  it  is  not  quite  safe  to  regard  all  shanty 
boat  denizens  as  river  pirates. 


XXXIV.— THE  BOAT-HOUSE,  BRIGHTON. 

It  might  be  a  bit  of  Holland,  or  it  might 
be  a  bit  of  Venice,  but  it  is  neither,  it  is  just 
one  of  the  odd  bits  in  Cincinnati — one  of  the 
places  that  a  man  born  and  bred  here  might 
never  know  existed  were  it  not  for  the  eyes 
and  the  hand  of  the  artist. 


XXXV.— FOURTH  STREET,  WEST  OF  MAIN. 

Can  there  be  anything  new  in  architecture? 
Look  at  our  sky-scrapers  for  your  answer. 
And  can  a  sky-scraper  be  beautiful?  Most 
surely.  This  Union  Central  Building  is  in 
reality  a  massive  tower.  It  is  to  Cincinnati 
what  Notre  Dame's  towers  are  to  Paris,  what 
St.  Paul's  dome  is  to  London,  the  distinctive 
feature.  Had  it  been  possible  to  build  this 
tower  in  ancient  days,  it  would  have  been  the 
Eighth  Wonder  of  the  World.  But  it  repre- 
sents the  modern  wonder  of  the  world — steel — 
which  in  one  form  or  another  has  made  the 
present  age.  Within  itself  this  giant  structure, 
with  its  steel  skeleton,  it's  swift  elevators, 
its  flowing  water,  it's  steam  heat,  it's  glowing 
electric  lights,  stands  for  all  the  progress  in 
the  applied  arts  which  man  has  made. 


XXXVI.— THE  CLIFTON  BASIN. 

Gone  are  its  glories.  It  is  just  a  reedy 
pond  these  days.  When  the  canal  was  really 
a  canal,  back  somewhere  in  1830  and  1840, 
before  the  railroad  era,  there  was  a  shipbuilding 
plant  here  where  they  built  canal  boats. 
The  place  resounded  with  the  hum  of  the  saw 
and  noise  of  the  hammer,  and  the  ship  car- 
penters lived  nearby,  and  it  was  a  center  of 
active  industry,  whereas  to-day  the  sleep  of 
the  ages  seems  to  have  settled  down  on  it, 
and  the  only  purpose  it  serves  is  to  make  a 
fine  skating  pond  in  the  winter,  on  those 
infrequent  occasions  when  there  is  a  hard  frost. 


XXXVIL— THE   L.   &   N.   BRIDGE,    FROM    THE 
NEWPORT  SIDE. 

How  seldom,  as  we  stand  by  the  river, 
and  by  our  railroad  bridges,  do  we  think  of 
what  they  mean.  If  we  were  to  launch  our 
bark  on  the  river  and  go  with  it's  tide,  at  last, 
after  many  a  day,  and  after  many  a  twist 
and  turn,  we  would  arrive  at  New  Orleans. 
And,  if  we  were  to  take  the  train  that  goes 
across  this  bridge,  thundering  across  the 
Southland,  in  twenty-four  hours  we  would 
reach  New  Orleans.  These  highways  lead 
to  the  same  place — one  made  by  man,  and 
the  other  made  by  the  Almighty. 

If  I  could  follow  my  homeland  streams 

As  ever  they  Southward  run, 
Vd  come  at  last  to  tropic  seas 

Warmed  by  the  tropic  sun. 
rd  come  at  last  to  islands  strange, 

A  marvel,  every  one. 
Tall  palms  and  gorgeous  fruits  and  flowers 

Warmed  by  the  tropic  sun. 


XXXVIII.— REFLECTIONS,  OLIVE  BRANCH. 

With  many  a  curve  my  bank  I  fret, 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow  weed  and  mallow, 
I  chatter,  chatter  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 


XXXIX.— MT.  ADAMS,  FROM  BELLEVUE. 

There  are  some  city  views  of  surpassing 
loveliness.  Wordsworth  stood  upon  Westmin- 
ster Bridge  in  the  early  morning  and  wrote: 

"Earth  hath  not  anything  to  show 
more  fair." 

And  more  than  one  poet  has  seen  and 
felt  the  beauty  of  the  city. 

'  'There  is  one  glory  of  the  Sun,  and  an- 
other glory  of  the  Moon." 

There  is  beauty  not  only  in  the  great 
places  of  nature,  in  the  hills,  in  the  forests 
and  on  the  seas,  but  in  the  cities  which  man 
has  built. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset,  when  it  touches 
with  its  magic  colors,  and  its  dim,  mysterious 
tints,  our  hilltops,  is  as  wonderful  as  the 
sunset  in  the  mountains  or  on  the  ocean. 
Nature  is  the  great  artist,  and  nature,  on  her 
far  flung  canvass  of  sky  and  land,  is  as  generous 
with  her  colors  in  the  city  as  in  the  country. 


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BERKELEY 

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